The Distant Affair
The train smelled of wet wool and rust, a metallic tang that clung to the back of my throat as I watched the fields blur past the window. I was heading home to Miller’s Creek, a place that felt less like a geography and more like a memory I had tried to delete but failed to erase. The fog was thick, a white soup that swallowed the tracks whole, erasing the horizon until the world felt small and...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 5 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen